


you'll always have me.

by starrynights234



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: (if that’s possible), (love that that is a tag), BAMF Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Bathing/Washing, Canon Compliant, Canon Tweaked To Make Them More Obviously In Love, Fix-It of Sorts, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Soft Kisses, True Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-15
Updated: 2020-01-24
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:02:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22272271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starrynights234/pseuds/starrynights234
Summary: "Come on," Jaskier sighs, hand poised on his hip and looking down at Geralt scowling into the bathtub, "You must wantsomethingfor yourself when this... monster-hunting nonsense it over with."(aka kisses throughout the series that should've happened between them but didn't.)
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 24
Kudos: 378





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> FYI: these won't be in chronological order. i write when the spirit moves me so blame them for serendipitous motivation.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> geralt has a bath, jaskier pines.

"Come on," Jaskier sighs, hand poised on his hip and looking down at Geralt scowling into the bathtub, "You must want _something_ for yourself when this... monster-hunting nonsense it over with." 

"I want nothing." Geralt replied simply.

To most this would seem final. A declaration; of empty anger from a world that demanded there always be an ulterior motive to everything, as if life wasn't itself only an empty cycle of wake, work, buy, eat, fuck, sleep, and always will be, that Geralt should desire something other than the life he was created and moulded for; and a resentment for an existence that always begged for an _after._ An _after_ that contained some unknown, mystical _something_ that this, the painful, straining, exhausting haul through life, will have made worth it - some fucking _destiny_ or any other faith-based horseshit - when all that awaited them, he knew, was the inevitability of a nothingness. Peaceful but at the same time void of peace. Somewhere to rest. To be free of his curse. To free of those who inflicted it and to those who exploit it. To be free of himself. 

Jaskier knew that this just meant he was pissed because he was always pissed. That philosophical shit was probably thrown in there occasionally, but only when he was being extra broody. He hadn't quite yet decided if he was just 'Geralt-pissed' or 'genuinely-pissed'. He inspected his nails. 

"Well, who knows?" He said flippantly, tossing his head, and strode over to kneel before the bath, resting his forearms over the rim. He kept his voice playful, pouting out his words as to ease whatever tension that kept Geralt's gaze on the steaming water, "Maybe someone out there will want you." _Me. Me. Me._

"I need no one." He turned to face Jaskier but failed to find Jaskier's dark and warm eyes as his head had tipped downwards, watching the ripples of steaming water. He seemed suddenly forlorn and Geralt found himself reaching out; not physically of course, but the muttering granting of the truth, "And the last thing I want is someone needing me." 

Jaskier's voice was softer, "And yet," He met Geralt's eyes, could see the stubbornness that lined them, the bitter smile tucked into the corner of his mouth, and felt stupidly _fond._ Endeared by the damp pale strands of hair stuck to his ears, by his wide shoulders splayed over the sides of the bath, by the hidden, but not for him, never for him, _defeat_ under the layers of obstinance and resentment and stoicism that permeated his gravelly syllables. His fingers twitched to touch his cheek, his chin, just him and reassure - of his _hereness,_ of his _i'm-not-leavingness,_ of his _choose-me-as-your-somethingness._

Instead, his voice only becomes softer as he keeps Geralt's gaze, "Here we are." 

For a moment Geralt studies him. The tumble of dark hair over his forehead, his blue eyes, darker in the dim light, flickered with the orange candlelight, the patient set of his brow, the loyal line of his mouth. And how he sat there, quiet, _a rare occurrence_ he knew he could tease, but for every moment of Jaskier's boisterousness and eagerness, there are moments like these when he knows to be gentle and to wait for him. Not as a predator waits for his prey, silent amongst the trees, waiting for it to twitch... but like a lover. Like a lover who awakens early but can only lay still, quiet, to watch their lover sleep and wait, peacefully, eternally, for their lover to stir. And awake. And smile. 

"Hm." Geralt hums. He's smiling, and this 'hm' is as wispy as the curling tendrils of steam and beckons " _come here"._

Jaskier happily obliges and leans over to meet Geralt in the middle. The kiss is soft and dewy and familiar, and though it is also brief, Jaskier is smiling when Geralt pulls away. A gentle kiss isn't enough to convince Geralt he's here for the long-run, but it's a start. It's something other than hesitant kisses late in the night and wanting kisses even later, and even something other than their most casual of kisses here and there. It's a promise of sorts. A seal of his love, and his loyalty, and his _choose-me-as-your-_ someone _ness._ And also, because Geralt of all beings had to be the one to claim his heart, a reassurance that it's okay to need someone and to be needed in return. _I'm here and I'm not leaving,_ he wants to shake those broad shoulders and make him see him and listen, _I'm here for the now and the after and it's because of you, my love._

Geralt returns the smile minutely. Maybe a song would work better than shaking him; he'd be less likely to end up with a fist in the stomach. 

Geralt breaks their moment by turning, the tip of his nose brushing Jaskier's, and by the heavy thrum of emotion from just that graze of contact, _fuck, he has to write a song,_ to search the room. He stops. 

" _Where the fuck are my clothes, Jaskier?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _I just want someone to grab my little face and scream, "ON PURPOSE, ON PURPOSE I AM GOING TO CARE ABOUT YOU"_
> 
> \- Jenny Slate
> 
> [EDITED: 16/01/2020]


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> jaskier's okay, geralt's worried, and yennefer _had_ a plan dammit!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a longer one as an apology for the wait!!

Jaskier skitters around the corner, his front drenched in blood, a trickle still stuck to the side of mouth and heaves as he finds an open door full of glorious, glorious daylight. His feet are clumsy but his fear has him moving erratically towards the escape, almost falling over entirely as he practically throws himself outside the building and as far away from _whatever the ever-loving fuck was going on back there._

The first thing he sees as he straightens is Geralt's face and he nearly keels over in relief, "Oh Geralt. Thank the gods," He clasps his hands to his knees to catch his breath but he can see Geralt moving towards him, steps heavy with purpose, and stands up despite his heaving chest, "I might live to see another day." 

He raises his arms on instinct as Geralt moves further into his space. At this proximity, he was expecting a hug - something encompassing and protective, Geralt's forearms coiled around his back, his own draped around his shoulders, their hips, stomach, chest, flush together in a desperate reassurance of his continued existence for Geralt, and with a hurried but lingering nuzzle of his face into Geralt's neck, a reassurance for Jaskier that he after _whatever the ever-loving fuck was going on back there_ was assuredly safe. Something instinctual yet brief and outwardly impersonal; Geralt’s forte.

And then Geralt kisses him. His hands engulf his cheeks, and then his arms winds around to waist to crush him against his strong and dirty torso, and his mouth is... soft. A firm pressure, gentle and keen, his fingers curling in the hair at the nape of Jaskier’s neck as they met over and over. Jaskier could only catch whatever he could, the leather shoulders of Geralt’s jerkin, and kiss back. With a lingering kiss, followed by an irresistible another, he pulled away to gently knock their foreheads together. 

And for a beat, Geralt only paused and _listened_. 

Jaskier knew him well enough to know he was listening for his heartbeat - thumping and pumping and alive. It was only _slightly_ unnerving if he thought on it too long, so he didn’t, and so revelled in how a smile tugged at Geralt’s mouth at how his heart was beating wildly after such an enrapturing kiss. 

"Jaskier," he breathes in the space between their mouths, "You're okay." 

Jaskier smiles, dizzy from his rare public closeness, "Glad to hear you give a monkey's about it." 

Geralt huffed, which was somewhat equivalent of loud laughter, eyes and mouth still impossibly soft, "Let's not jump to conclusions," His eyes searched his face and narrowed near his mouth; his thumb moved from where it had settled in the dip under his cheekbone to rub at the blood on his chin. His features hardened, "What happened in there." 

_Leave, leave, we need to leave, scary and sexy mage, magic, blood, leave, chanting, haunting chanting, hurricanes of wind whipping the bed, his clothes, the tendrils of her black hair, painted runes scrawled across her stomach, breasts bare, violet eyes wild, screaming, leave, her shadow on the wall dispersing into smoke that curled into the shape of a man, the shadow creature sprawling across the room towards her, leave, the room shaking, the earth quaking, Geralt, LEAVE._

"Well," He coughed to break the lump in his throat and ignored Geralt's frown to instead grab the hand on his waist and pull him away from the building. Thankfully, Geralt followed him, prompting Jaskier to pick up his pace, "I was having a rather lovely dream which then turned into a nightmare. There were naked women in both parts; the first was loving, tender, very generous; the second, _significantly_ more terrifying." 

Geralt tugged on his hand but Jaskier refused to stop, "Tell me about the second one." 

"Well, black hair, devilish eyes, was painting an amphora on her abdomen," Whilst his voice remained flippant and casual, as if coming face to face with quite possibly the most powerful creature to walk the earth was a daily occurrence, which it sort of was actually, the looming of this building overhead was pooling something primal and terrified in his stomach that made him want to run very fast and very far away, Geralt protectively pressed against him, and leave this vicious woman to her own demonic devices, "You know, the usual." 

Geralt halted. Jaskier almost tripped. _Geralt_. 

"She wants to be a vessel." His gruff voice full of realisation. 

"What? You know this woman?" His life choices struck him, "Of course you know this woman." 

"She wants to become more powerful," he murmurs and twists in Jaskier's grip to stare back at the building, eyes full of dawning horror and _Geralt, I swear to all the gods_ , "But she'll die." 

Jaskier leant into his field of vision, "Well, let's pray for her on our way _out of town_." He restarted his very intelligent and very rational retreat from a situation that, evidently, seemed to have sorted itself out in his opinion, and yanked on Geralt's hand only to stumble through his momentum as the weight in his hand vanished. _Geralt, if you even fucking dare I'll leave that mage to do whatever she likes with your CORPSE._

He took a moment to centre himself, breathed in, breathed out, turned around to Geralt striding back towards the building, and took off after him. 

" _Are you perhaps short of a marble_?" He demanded, full knowing the answer was an infuriating and resounding yes especially in the proximity of a helpless victim in need of a hero, Jaskier’s arms spread wide as if to demonstrate the size of his stupidity. Geralt ignored him. 

The elven healer that had failed to help him, _useless_ , that had lead them to the mage, _dangerously useless_ , and then back to the place bearing the mage, _stupidly dangerously useless_ , stepped forward to interject but Jaskier got there first. 

He takes him by the arm and this time Geralt stops. And stares at him. And _fuck_ , he recognises that look. He’d seen it many times and, in fact, he’d seen it that same morning. He’d wheezed for breath, fingers scratching and scrambling at his engorging throat, eyes wide with panic and pleading, _pleading_ up at Geralt to _help, help, please help, Geralt, I can’t breathe, I’m dying, my love, help me, help me._ And he’d heard; he’d helped; and that look in his eyes, on his brow, in his mouth, stayed there and reassured but also promised and Jaskier had felt _safe_. 

Now all he felt was dread. Dread and quickly dawning horror.

“I know that look Geralt, and I know, I do, but you can’t save her. Leave the witch to her sexy, insane, inevitable demise before you meet your own.” He pleads but he knew it was futile. His witcher’s stubborn, valiant, beautiful mind was made up, it all there to see lining of his amber eyes, but he had to _try_ , “Please.” _For me._

Geralt, for an astounding moment, seemed to listen, his eyes flickering across his face until they stilled at one spot and Jaskier knew his fleeting luck had timed out. His calloused fingers unwound Jaskier’s fingers which were unknowingly gripping his shirt to then reach out and brush against the tender skin of Jaskier’s neck. His eyes darkened once more - the witcher disappearing into that deep and focused place within him, a state beaten into him as a child, where his vision tunnelled, his reflexes heightened, but where _his_ witcher, his lover, his Geralt, differed so beautifully was that his heart, not his coin, commanded each step of his foot. 

“She saved your life Jaskier,” His thumb hovered over his pulse point before he pulled away, “I can’t let her die.” 

And he walked straight through the doors of hell.

_Fuck. Fuck. FUCK._

Jaskier follows him inside. 

The room somehow was fiercer than when he left. Curtains clapping the air, the heavy drapes around the bed whipping with a roar, the candle-flame flickering dangerously close to the flapping paper on the desk - all of them pointing with aggressive urgency to the witch in the centre. She had seemingly fallen to the floor, the shawl fallen completely off her torso to expose her, and her bronze skin shiny with sweat. Her eyes were hard with a warning when she spotted them and she rose, arm shaking and outstretched towards them. 

" _Don't_." 

Jaskier felt that was fair and was more than happy to _not._ But Geralt stepped forward, shoulders hunched in worry. 

"I'm here to help you." 

She wheezed in a breathed, eyes squeezing shut in pain and her hand slammed down to the side, taut as if to keep her sat up. Her hair blew around her face, a dark cloak of threads streaming out behind her, unravelled and unrestrained, "I don't need your help." _No she certainly did fucking not,_ "You're free. No longer under my spell." 

Jaskier glanced over at Geralt; his bright eyes were wide with worry, mouth tight with determination, unflinching as he turned her eyes back up to him, violet and filled with tears of power. _Not quite._ He didn't know how to feel about that. 

"And yet, here I am," Geralt moved further towards her as she convulsed, but Jaskier stayed hovering by the doorframe, hand poised for a fleeting moment as he debated whether to grab and stop him, "You saved my bard. Let me save you." 

A smile pulled at her mouth, dark and amused, "You seem to want to meet your end." 

"As do you." 

Her back arched and she cried out in pain, "The djinn isn't weakening!" She panted, leant back on her hands, gaze focused on a spot on the ceiling, "Your bard expressed his last wish, but it's-" She heaved in a painful breath, her back arching involuntarily until the bones cracked and she gasped; the black amphora on her pelvis bulged, and, in unison, it seemed by how Geralt sucked in a quiet breath, he and Jaskier recognised was in fact the shape of a uterus. 

"What the fuck are you trying to do?" Jaskier blurted and realised that he had lurched forward, shielded though still by Geralt's shoulder. 

She ignored him, "It's getting stronger. _GO_!" 

Geralt stayed, Jaskier by his side, "...That's because I'm the one with the wishes." 

Jaskier moved round to his front as Yennefer lifted her head, blue and violet lined with confusion and anger, and they spoke simultaneously; one in hushed bewilderment, the other in barked outrage, " _You_?" 

Jaskier shook his head minutely, stomach-churning in betrayal and disbelief - Geralt was the one to bloat his neck, fill his throat with blood, choke, splutter, and wheeze with the painful effort of staying alive. He had assumed it was the product of a disobedient djinn; not the work of his lover, "You're the djinn's master?" 

A distinct whistling whooshed through the room, rippling the drapes of the bed, beckoned by the mention of its master. Geralt averted his eyes from him, swallowed, "Yeah." 

"Well, what are you waiting for?" The mage howled between them. She had collapsed over to hunch over the floor, shoulder blades pointing sharply upwards, her elbows splayed in effort, " _Make your wishes!_ " 

" _Becoming a vessel for the djinn will have you lose control, not gain it_!" Geralt had to bellow to be heard over the roaring of the wind, his dark-white hair whipping around his face as he circled around her. Regardless of Jaskier's furious look and the rage radiating off him, he still outstretched an arm in front of his bard, an improvised attempt of protection. Jaskier ignored how his heart ached at that, " _Can't you see what this is doing to you?_ " 

" _True transformation is painful_ _!_ " She spat, her head flung back, 

" _Release the djinn! I'll give you my last wish_." He pleaded. Jaskier could only look between them, the dread he had felt twisting and pooling into a molten panic. 

" _You heroic protector. You noble dog. Permitting my success so long as you command it yourself_." She shrieked, her body writhing, her teeth gnashing, tears of exertion dripping down her cheeks from straining eyes, warping her into a creature of intense power, volatile, vicious, flawless, capable of summoning chaos and wielding it like an artist would a brush - precise yet impulsive, _"FUCK OFF."_ The power of her scream bent her forwards and she flipped upright, hair sweeping a wild arch, " _I'll do this myself_." 

_"Damn it, Yennefer."_

Something snapped in Jaskier - a desperation, an anger, a _complete fucking done-ness with this entire godsforsaken day -_ and he threw his arms in the air, screaming over the wind, " _What the fuck do you want?_ " 

"I WANT EVERYTHING." 

Her arm clawed out, his body was shoved, and then there was only darkness. 

Jaskier groaned. His voice was muffled, his limbs stiff, his back warm, and a concentrated part of his head was throbbing. The world slowly swam into existence; the soft ground beneath his face was in fact a cushion, his body splayed out over various of these, the room he was in was airer but still, not the hurricane he'd been a moment ago, and the environment was quieter, not roaring of wind assaulting his ears and mind, but there were two distinct voices. One sharp and higher, the other deep and gravely - they both seemed angry and tired. Jaskier summoned as much energy as he could to turn his head and blink open his eyes. 

In his eye line was a knee, dressed in tight black trousers, and behind, as he fixed the focus of his eyes, a thigh draped in white cotton. It was then he suddenly realised the warm weight pressed between his shoulder blades was a hand - Geralt's hand - and he squirmed closer to the figure next to him. 

"Jaskier?" Geralt's voice was clearer, closer, and the woman's voice stopped. The hand rubbed his back before hesitating but then moving to brush the hair from his face, "Are you alright?" 

"Think so." He reached out to placed a hand on his knee - permission. 

"You know if you were going to portal us out, you could've taken us out of this shit town." Geralt snarled behind him, a heat behind the words that Jaskier felt he lacked the recent context for, but was a great contrast to how Geralt gently helped him up into a sitting position, fretting over his injured head; as Geralt gingerly touched it, he realised he was bleeding, a fact that only made his witcher's eyes darken. 

"A fine critique if you could make a portal yourself," Yennefer stood up, rearranging the fabric over her shoulders, her lips pursed as she glared down at him, “And it wasn’t a shit town, it was a fine town until you came along with your insufferable pet!” She gestured wildly towards Jaskier as he stood up, “I had a plan.” 

“And that was going swimmingly,” Jaskier muttered, brushing off his clothes. He only flinched slightly when she rounded on him, violet eyes crackling and voice like thunder. 

“It was.” 

A smarter man may have kept his mouth shut, but unfortunately, Jaskier was a bard. He didn’t own a sword and he couldn’t wield magic from his palms; his only weapon was words and right now, Geralt unarmed and Yennefer exhausted, he finally had the upper-hand. 

“Like an oncoming tempest, perhaps.” He huffed out a sarcastic bark, “I could write a song about it: The Slain Sorceress And Her Spectacular Plan. It’ll be a hit in every town you’ll ever even think about plotting in. Tell me, which rhymes better? Enchantress with thankless, or witch with bitc-“ 

“Jaskier.” 

Jaskier had half a mind to shrug off Geralt’s warning hand but found himself instead leaning into the warmth, his thrumming head tilted to relax against his shoulder. Whilst his voice following was soft with fatigue by the way the muscles tensed in Geralt's arm he knew he was far from kidding, "Don't think you're off the hook either, Geralt." 

"Hm." He agreed placidly and pressed his nose into his hair, breathing deeply. 

"Not only a friend then?" Yennefer drawled from across the room, her hands circling to make a ring of shimmering air. 

"Hm." Geralt had placed a hand over Jaskier's heart. 

The portal in front of her shifted suddenly to display another room panelled in wood and filled with candle-light. She turned, her eyes falling to were Jaskier was watching her, but they were softer, lidded heavier in resignation, and Jaskier saw there was more to her beauty than chaos - there was something soft, and open, and, with a quirk of her mouth, _human_. 

"I like witch and bitch." She stepped through the portal and it closed behind her. 

Jaskier sighed heavily, slumping his full weight against Geralt, feeling for the first time since the river he could breathe easily. Geralt hummed against the crown of his head and brought him closer, warm and solid and guilty. He placed his hand over the one on his chest. He felt a kiss on his head. 

"You're alive! Oh, thank the gods, you're alive!" The tinkle of broken glass, "Where's Yennefer?" 

"Gone." 

_"Gone?"_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i SAID if you downplay geralt's relationship with yennefer and sideline her for the sake of your ship YOUR MOM'S A HOE.


End file.
